


Come and Conquer

by charnelhouse



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Bounty Hunter Reader (Star Wars), Door Sex, F/M, POV Din Djarin, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 21:34:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30095442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charnelhouse/pseuds/charnelhouse
Summary: Mando pisses you off. He makes it up to you (kind of).
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 97





	Come and Conquer

You’re pissed at him. It’s _burning_ out of you - the muscles in your back bunched and tense - sweat damp beneath your hair. He touches your shoulder and you arch away from him - hissing like a feral cat.

“Sweet girl,” he tries and the _look_ you shoot over your shoulder is terrifying. It chills his blood.

It also makes him rock-hard because Din - if anything - is completely fucked up when it comes to his kinks and his desires and his painful attraction to your brilliance at doling out violence.

He stalks after you - calling your name - trying _anything_ that will make you respond to him.

You slam the door in his face and the wood reverberates through the unbreakable steel of his helmet.

“Really?” he growls through the barrier. “You’re gonna just ignore me?”

You don’t respond. _Figures_.

They’re at Cara’s place in Nevarro. She’d offered to take the baby for a few days while Mando and you chased after their bounties - traveling deep into the desert. It’s quiet - empty. The kid’s toys scattered across a small table. She must still be out working. The baby most likely at the day school. They had returned a lot earlier than they had planned. He surveys the kitchen - the entryway leading to outside and all that hot, dry sand. The house is cramped, which only means that the room is ready to blow - the tension growing to a choking, noxious gas.

He could go outside - sulk around - curse himself until _maybe_ you calmed down enough that he could work his way back into your arms or between your legs or _anything_.

He _did not like_ that you were angry with him. It unsettled him.

He rubs the back of his gloved-hand against the visor of his helmet - _no - he can’t do that._ If he leaves now, you’d be furious - you’d think him a coward who runs away from his problems, resigned to the hopeful belief that those problems will just fix themselves once enough time passes.

He huffs - slamming a fist into the wall. It’s immature - childish. You _fucking_ bring it out in him. You make him desperate and frantic and _Maker_ he really didn’t mean to piss you off so spectacularly.

He needs to play his cards right here because currently he’s boasting a losing hand at a critical game of Sabacc. He needs to _really_ get under your skin so you’ll open the door and he can touch you. Then he can anchor you to him and get you pliant so you’ll forgive him.

He rests the front of his helmet against the door - plants his palms on either side.

“Baby,” he calls. It’s a word he barely uses. His sweet names for you are ones usually ripped from him during the height of his climax or when he’s balls deep inside you and he can barely form a genuine, coherent thought - it’s just _fuck you - you beautiful, perfect thing - fuck you for making me want something for my own benefit - for making me require something - not simply want - but require - he needed you like he needed air - water - sustenance._

You were in his blood. You were in his flesh. He didn’t deserve you.

“I’m sorry,” he admits - he freely _gives_. He cannot recall the last time he apologized for anything. He truly can’t. “I’m fucking sorry, alright? I-I forget sometimes what you can do - what you are.” He pauses - rubbing a hand over his chest - pressing, shoving at that uncomfortable hitch in his lungs. “I just wanted to protect you and that was wrong of me.”

“You’re damn right it was,” you hiss right up against the other side of the door.

 _Success_.

“Open up, pretty,” he urges - tapping a finger against the knob. “Please.”

He _had_ messed up. You were taking down a bounty - moving with grace and ease and then the bastard had gotten the jump on you - slammed a fist into your jaw and before you could do _anything_ \- Mando had yanked you away and shot the guy full in the face.

He recalls in astonishing clarity the way you had frozen up - the way your gaze had struck him down - confusion wrinkling your brow. You had been the one looking up at _him_ and _he_ had been the one who felt incredibly fucking small.

“Why? Why did you-” you had trailed off and when Mando brushed his knuckle across the blood at the corner of your mouth, you startled - ripping away from him.

He had realized - _then_ \- that he had fucked up. He had taken a kill from you - _again_.

“I’m not helpless, Mando,” you spat at him as you marched back to your speeder bike. “I don’t need to be coddled or protected and I _fucking_ had that kill so _fuck you_.”

He had done it to you before and _that_ was why you blew like a top. It was the last straw - the final stone thrown. He’d done it to you three times previously. A mark would smack you - would punch or hit or kick you and Mando would see red - would see stars and spiraling meteors - and his gut would twist and he’d act before he could think it through - think it plain and solid.

He’d _kill_.

And he was wrong for it.

He raps his knuckles against the door once more. “Can I - can I say this to your face?”

The door swings open and _there_ you are. There’s dried blood on your chin - dirt smeared across your forehead. Your loose bun in disarray from the unforgiving wind of the desert.

 _Fierce_ he thinks. _You’re fierce_ and how could he ever _ever_ doubt your capabilities. He carefully moves a lock of your hair out of your eyes. You let him.

He goes a step farther - cupping your jaw - sweeping his thumbs over your cheekbones.

He hopes that your anger has cooled down to a rolling boil as your eyes scan his face. They’re beautiful - just like every other part of you. He wonders if it frustrates you that you can never see him - catch the expressions he uses _for only you_. He’s certain that they’re probably idiotic - half dumb - half-mad - all drunk on you and your loveliness.

“I fucked up,” he states - hoping his voice - despite the modulator - bleeds contrition. “I see someone hurt you and I lose all sense.”

You scoff. “He barely hurt me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” He runs a leather-clad finger over your lip - the pointed curve of your chin. He should take them off - he should _feel_ you for real - savor the warm, plush ache of your skin. “Anyone who touches you like that - anyone who isn’t me - I’ll - I’ll kill them.”

You arch a brow cooly. “I’m a hunter, Mando. Same as you. If I need your help, I’ll ask.” You trace a circle on the cuirass of his armor - swiping it through matted blood and sand. “I _wanted_ that kill.”

He pauses. He knew what _that_ was like - how the adrenaline made you go rigid - a free-wheeling ball of energy in need of release. You’d been pent up - chomping at the bit - _fucking ready_ \- and he had ended it with the laser point of a blaster.

 _Oh_ he thinks. _Oh you did need something from him_.

He moves his grip to your hips before spinning you around and hauling you against the door. He moves the top of his hand behind your head to cushion it before it can rebound off the wood. “Did it bother you?” he rumbles. “That I took that from you? Did you want it?”

You bite your lip - lashes fluttering - skin flushing much like it does when you’re naked and spread out on his cot.

 _Damn - he got it right_ _on the first try_.

“You need a release?” he urges - his fingers biting into the flesh of your sides. “Need me to tire you out? Get you to relax.” His voice sinks low - birthing from the very pit of his stomach - the cradle of his desires that are dark and heady and _wrong_. _Maker he wants you_. “I’ll get you loose, I’ll get you so fucking wet, pretty.”

He slips his hand down the front of your pants - runs the knuckle of his index finger through your slit. It’s _weeping_. You shudder against him - eyes round and shiny. “How long have you been wet like this? Poor, sweet girl just desperate to be fucked this whole damn time?”

You frown - expression screwing up into something he knows you want to exude as _offended_ when it really just comes off as _adorable_ (at least to him). You don’t want to give him _everything_ just yet - you don’t want to surrender. Your palms are firm against his chest as you keep him from engulfing you into the door completely.

“Are you still mad at me?” he murmurs - finger stroking down along the peak of your clit and you swallow a moan. It comes out tangled - repressed and urgent. It makes his cock twitch. “Can I make it up to you?”

You’re silent - pinning your icy gaze to his visor as he continues to play with your swollen cunt. He imagines how dark it must be from his fingers - from the heat and wet. He wants to eat you - wants to wrap his hands around your shaking thighs and sink his tongue into the fluttering, blushing hole of your pussy.

You survey him like a predator - like a quiet, jeweled-eyed creature who would just as likely snap its fangs into his palm as nuzzle its cheek.

He pushes forward - skates his touch across your chest - the curve of your breast beneath your leather vest.

You allow him to part your legs - let him pop the button on your pants. He tugs them down and as he moves he shoves his helmet up enough that he can run his tongue across the areas of your flesh that are marred in bruises - some made by him and some made by that piece of shit who is going cold out back. You taste like salt - like that _sex_ smell from your slippery cunt to the balmy, damp junctures behind your knees and under your arms. The Nevarro swelter is cloying - is making the whole room bloat and warp from the temperature and, even in the great cage of his armor, he _can’t care_.

He can feel the beat of your heart as he licks at you - as he squeezes the tight muscles of your calves and your delicate ankle. He tilts his head up and you’re watching him hungrily - your mouth parted on the tip of a whine as you _exhale_

“I can smell you,” he growls as he stands. He lifts you up and against the door - your ankles crossing right over his ass: a position they’ve done a hundred times due to the narrow, cluttered space of the Razor Crest. “Unzip me - help me out here.”

You make an amused sort of sound from the back of your throat and it nearly cracks the glacial facade you’re trying keep up. Your fury has muted - gone down to coals. You reach for him - taking him in hand - stroking him rough until he’s thrusting the curve of it through your curled fingers. “Stars you know how to touch me, gorgeous girl.” You twist your grip - brush your thumb over the head and he lurches into you. “Shit - let me fuck you.”

“Easy, Mando,” you caution - the lilt of it raking over the nerves in his spine - down to the fever in his balls. “You’re still on my bad side.”

He sighs. “You’re really going to drag this out aren’t you?”

“Yup.”

He drops the face of his helmet against your shoulder - squeezing the muscles of your thighs as they tighten around him. “I hate when you’re mad at me.”

You tug his cock forward - letting it brush against the seam of your pussy - dressing it in your slick. It catches on the peak of your clit, making you jerk in his arms. He circles his hips - lets you lead - lets you force his cock through your folds as you pant against the side of his helmet: “Start making it up to me, then.”

“How do you want it?” He shoos your hand away.

“Hard,” you husk. “Fast.”

_Fuck._

“Hold on to me, then.”

He presses the head inside you - nudging - _guiding_ with the firm grasp of his hand. He feels _all of you_ \- feels as you tighten around him inch by inch - walls convulsing - nearly expelling him because it’s a difficult fit. It’s always a test - a shove and push until you can swallow him whole. He loves to watch you - devours the furrow in your brow - your bottom lip going white as you _bite_ down - as your nails claw at his pauldrons while you _try_ with everything in you to receive him to the base.

“You’re such a tight little thing,” he grinds out. “Fucking strangling my cock.”

“Or maybe - _oh fuck that hurts - slower_ \- you’re just too big.”

“Now - you’re just being sweet,” he grins as he gently drags himself out of you - catching on the rim of your pussy before he pushes back in. It’s a motion of give and take as he stretches you lazily - lets your cunt mold to him. “Easy, ...relax. Let me in there.” You arch - your eyes narrowed to slits as you peer down at him. He knows he’s pushing his luck by poking at you - by _taunting_ and _teasing_. “You’re just so fucking stubborn,” he adds as another prod before he notches the pad of his thumb against your swelling clit and rolls - trying to moisten you up - get you to flood him and when he finally snaps his hips _up_ , you bear down on him with the bulk of your strength - flexing around him - engulfing him to the hilt.

“FUCK,” he wheezes - a choke caught up in the damp of his throat before he loses his balance and crushes you into the damn door.

“I’m gonna smack you,” you hiss as he tries to fix his grip around your ass. He exhales long and deliberate to get his head on straight. He nearly blew his load right there.

_That wasn’t fair._

He could _return_ it. He knows your secret places - how to get you dizzy - how to make you forget words and whole sentence structures. He can play _dirty_.

“Pretty girl wants to fight, huh?” He lifts you higher - jolts his hips forward and _up_ until you bounce with it - breasts jiggling - eyes widening in surprise. “You want to take it out on me? After what I did?”

“Mando...” you warn before it falls away from your lips - his name slipping like smoke - like the leftover vibration of a sparked blaster. He feels your walls spasm around the length of him - your muscles twitching underneath his hand.

He slams into you - drives himself as hard as he can until the head of his cock is knocking up against your cervix. Everything is focused to a _point_ \- to his cock and his groin - the only bare, raw part of him available as your soaked, perfect body takes him again and again. He can barely feel your nails as they scramble at the folds of his cape - the muted pressure as you move your grip to his neck.

He doesn’t take it easy on you - he gives you exactly what you had asked for. He _loves_ it - loves that you adore how brutal he is with you - how ugly he can be with his sex. You’re an enigma - soft and lovely and then demanding of sharpness - craving the pain he brings you when he cracks you open - when he bruises you with his fingers or his teeth - when he leaves you unable to walk right or sit down or even when he makes you cry - just a little - just _enough_.

He savors _this_ vision of you - as color floods your face - as another gasp slips from your mouth - as your teeth shine white against the red bloom of your lips. Your orgasm is close - simmering beneath the surface of your skin - he feels it in the way your cunt clutches around him - the way your heart is beating to chaos - to _too fucking much_.

He lower his helmet to watch where he’s fucking you open - the glossy sheen of your juices painting his dick - wetting the hair at his groin, and when he cups the back of your skull to tilt your face down - _to see_ \- you whimper at the sight - the intimacy of it - the lewdness of it mixed with the sucking-liquid squelch of him splitting you on his cock.

He wants to scream it: _look what I do to you - look what I do to you_

And hidden in all that - burning at the back of his exclamations is the reverse: _look what you do to me - you make me crazy, sweet girl - you make me forget what i do - how i live - what it was once like to live alone. I can’t remember. I don’t want to._

His strokes are growing clumsy - he’s shaking with the exertion - his balls are drawing up tight and the heat in his gut is building to its crescendo.

Your voice is run ragged - breathless with each slap of his hips. He parts the lips of your cunt - middle finger thrumming over your exposed clit - the leather is too textured - causing too much friction against your sensitive flesh. You burst open with a half-sob as you cling to him frantically.

“Mando,” you wail and you’re all pillowy - boneless and beautiful as you go limp in his arms - as your climax rolls through your body and makes your pussy yank him deeper.

“Yeah? Too much?” He touches your clit again just as he gives you one more solid thrust. “You’re a big girl. You can take it.”

Your eyes spark at that - gleaming deadly at his challenge. He curls his hand around your throat - shoving your head up the door and he _fucks_ you for real. It’s sloppy - the finesse in his movements long gone as he allows whatever feral part of him that makes him a hunter take over. It blinds him - deafens him. You swell around his shaft - get scalding - melt to feverish as you clamp down until it becomes a _fight_ of sorts and he barely knows who is fucking who at this point.

“Asshole,” you growl as he ruts into you - as your back scrapes _up up up_ and your arms wrap around his shoulders - tugging and pulling at his cape and your thighs are spread wide around him and everything is _soaked_ to ruin and he feels you go tight as a bowstring - your muscles locking up as your brow furrows - as if you suddenly don’t recognize where you are and then _it goes wet_ \- your cunt spasms into convulsions and the snap of it hauls him forward into his own finish. He fills you - spurting warm threads of come as you lock shackle-tight around him - hold him against you with your knees digging into his ribs and he’s stuck there - spearing you on his spitting cock for what feels like _hours_ until finally he goes tender - goes lax.

He mumbles your name - repeats it until it no longer is a name at all but a soothing sort of proclamation - a surge of affection that is punched out of him before he can stop himself.

You pet at his Beskar - unable to reach _him_ and it’s sad and frustrating. His Creed had never become an issue - not really - not until _now_ \- until you had traipsed into his life and stolen him in all the ways it counted.

He releases you slowly - lets your feet hit the ground. He groans at the sight of his own come leaking out of you - sliding down your trembling thighs from the cleft of your dark, puffy cunt. He wants you - _still_ \- he wants to - _needs to_ be closer.

“Shut your eyes,” he asks softly. You’re dazed as you weakly rub at the bruises along your neck that he has left.

“Huh?”

He puts his hand over your eyes. “Eyes. Closed,” he orders before adding - lamely. “Please?”

You do as he asks and he quickly raises his helmet - launching himself at you and grabbing the back of your head - fingers tangling in your hair before kissing you shamelessly - tongue dipping into your mouth just to _taste_ before he pulls away.

You reach out for him - pouting. “Too fast.”

_Not enough. Never enough._

He grins, capturing your fingers and lifting them to his mouth so he can drag his lips over them - -a chaste kiss - a brush of _devotion_ \- before pulling his helmet back down.

“Feel better?”

You open your eyes and flash him something wolfish - something tipped at the edge of _menacing_. He can still see the white slide of his come between your legs. It makes his stomach twist - cock jumping against the press of his hand.

“Oh no, Mando,” you croon - fingers swiping through the river of him that drips and _drips_. “I’m gonna need more than that to feel better.”

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr bebs! Just made one and need friends. https://charnelhouse.tumblr.com/


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